What the water doesn't wash Away
by Lauralye
Summary: How long would you try to wash away all that you are? What would you choose? Your gifts? Your demons? Your desires? The crosses you were born to bear? The very cells that makes you who and what you are? You can try dear child, you will never succeed.
1. Marie

Disclaimer: I do not own nor claim to own the X-people. I do however, confess to wanting to own the X-men. But since nothing ever goes my way, I'm still just a poor high-school student who can only dream/drool about them. So there, I've said it, leave me alone.

Author's Note: I should be working on chapter 14 of 'The Irony of it All' but alas I've got another angst bunny running rampant through my head, and as such I'm obliged to torture my favorite people. * Sigh * I suppose this was brought about by the fact that I was sure I was through Christmas shopping and then suddenly remembered that I had yet to give y'all anything. So as of now, I've got three things running through my mind (scary isn't it?) This wonderful little piece of angst, the beginning of another full-blown story, which was thoughtfully and sadistically planted in my head by Princess Chi, and ch.14 of 'TIOIA.' Merry freakin' Christmas. Oh…and about the archiving rights that everyone says I need to post something about…want, ASK, take, enjoy. Enjoy without asking you will be hurt.

"What the water doesn't wash Away"

She bent and double checked the lock. She always double checked the lock. She was too afraid not to. 

That was how she lived, that was how she had to be.

Sometimes she was so scared that she wouldn't open her eyes in the morning, she was afraid to find that that was what she was. All she was.

And so very afraid that was all she'd ever be.

So she bent, and double checked the lock on the door, gave the handle several wrenching pulls to make sure it wouldn't come open, and slowly straightened. As always she made herself turn her back to the door. Cautiously, deliberately, her hands grabbed the hem of her shirt and eased it over her head. Slow, so slow. Always slow, tense, ready at the slightest movement to turn and wrench the material back down her chest if need be.

That was the way she always did it, and in the pit of her stomach, she knew with sickening certainty that that was the way it'd always have to be. 

Trembling hands lightly grazed their way down her stomach, hovering at the waist band of her jeans, not quite touching, never quite willing to believe that it was safe. Shaking, floating, whispering just a breath above her skin she paused and summoned her resolve. Tightly, hovering hands wrapped themselves into fists and set themselves against her skin. First the button, the zipper. Check once more over the shoulder to make sure the door is still locked. 

It always was.

Now slide the jeans down the curve of the hip, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, whatever it took to make herself shed them. Take out the first foot, and lift out the second. No shirt, no jeans. The last part had to be done quickly. Just a bra, plain white, and panties, undyed cotton. That was all she ever wore. She no one to wear anything else for. Her mind screamed she never would. 

She had long ago learned to tune out the things her heart screamed.

Place the hands behind the back, quickly, don't linger. Unsnap the hooks, try not to wince as the snap echoes in the ears, louder than it could possibly be to anyone else who heard. 

But no one else would ever hear, so it really didn't matter.

Shrug the shoulders and toss it on the counter. Force the hands down the ribcage, guide the scraps of fabric over the rise of the pelvic bones and then let them fall to the ankles. Step, now bend and toss them to the pile of isolated clothing on the counter. She pivoted toward the shower, reached and turned on the spray with ungloved hands, not allowing herself to enjoy the contact of even cold steel. 

Especially not cold steel. Steel was metallic, allowing herself to enjoy the feeling of metal against her unveiled hands was something she would not allow. Something she'd never allow.

Test the water with the hand, no longer flinching at the heat. Hot, thick, suffocating heat. She read once the scalding heat sterilized things. It wouldn't ever work for her, but what did she risk by trying? 

Reach back and pull the curtain closed, not stepping in yet, just allowing the heat to rise. She glanced towards the door once more. It was locked.

Another little piece of her died.

Her eyes drifted over to the mirror. They always would and she would hate it. But she couldn't make her eyes stop. Sometimes she wondered if they were even hers anymore.

Next would be the conversation. Nearly the same, never quite close enough to know who would say what first.

Magneto tonight. Sometimes she unexpectedly heard Erik, but tonight, as the majority of most other nights, it was Magneto who spoke first. Never with any lust, or lecherous thoughts towards the body that part of his pysche now resided in, but punishing all the same. Erik was gentler, more apologetic, never really saying much of anything, and like Magneto, he never forced her eyes to look at herself in any way that made her feel awkward. Neither of them did, and sometimes, she'd speak with one or both of them, trying to figure out how two parts of the same person had become completely separate entities. They were the same, but they were different too. But they never looked at her like that. Whoever they were, different or the same, they both loved their wife, Magda. She was one complete memory forged from both their minds.

And some small part of her wished that she'd had the chance to know the woman now remembered but had never known. She looked kind. 

The steam was getting thick, Magneto tonight. He'd speak first.

_Lost your nerve? Run to check the door again, make sure you don't take any chance on hurting the world that would kill you for what you are. Foolish girl. You cower when you could conquer. Will you ever learn?_

_'Stop it. Please…just stop.'_

Stop? You could move so much farther than this pathetic existence. No more hiding. No more locking the doors. No more cages in which to clothe yourself. Why does that scare you?

'Go away. Please. Be silent. Be still.'

You think you're poison. You're not. You're power. And you're weakness.

It never mattered what Magneto said about her skin. He couldn't understand. He never would. He could call her his sister all he wished but he didn't know her. Not the way he thought he did. His voiced desires would never cause her to remove the doubt she held. Never. 

And she couldn't allow Logan's to. Not until it was safe. If was ever safe. If he ever came back.

Logan's voice rumbled through her head like thunder. She'd always loved thunder storms when she was small. It soothed her, chased away the night mares. That's what Logan did. 

Even when the nightmares were his.

_I'll be there Marie. I'll be there. _

'Promise?'

I pormise. Marie?

'Yes?' 

You're beautiful.

That was how he finished every night. That was how he'd always finish. Until he came back and didn't have to use a mirror to say it anymore.

She turned away from the mirror. Test the water with the hand, just short of blistering the skin was the heat she used. It softened the perfect poison of her skin, 

It also made the blood flow easier.

~***~

Author's Note: So? What'dya think. I told you it was angst. Oh and FYI- I Have no idea what Erik's wife's name was, or if he even had a wife. I've never really followed the comic. Sorry if that upsets you. I used the name Magda, because I read it somewhere in another fic, which I honestly can not remember the name of. If Magda is your creation and I infringed upon it I am truly sorry, write me if this is your character and I'll be happy to give you complete credit. Or who knows…I may have just gotten lucky and Erik actually had a wife named Magda, and the author of the fic was a very well-versed person. But the statement is there just the same, she's not mine. And one more thing, this is un-beta'd so I could at least get this to y'all before X-mas break, so if there are any problems, don't blame my beat reader. Anyways~ Go review and let me know what you thought. Ja Nae~ Lauralye


	2. Logan

Disclaimer: If I owned Logan I would currently be doing things *much* more interesting than typing. And I'm leaving it at that.  
  
Author's Note: I'd like to clarify that this can not be misconstrued as my fault. This is all Celestial's fault. All of it. I was perfectly content to leave this one alone and then *she* said I needed to start it and then my muse was hitting me in the back of the head with a tire iron and it all kinda snowballed on my ass. So, even though she thinks otherwise this is all her fault. All of it. This is meant as a companion piece to 'What the water doesn't wash away,' though I suppose it could stand on it's own. However, this will not be the beginning of a full blown story, not now, maybe not ever. I've got too much to do right now and another epic would kill me.  
  
  
  
1 "Logan"  
  
  
  
The room was dark when he opened the door. It was the same room as last night, it was the same motel. It was just a different town. Not that it mattered. They were different towns that were all the same.  
  
They were all familiar, all different, and always the same. And for a man with who couldn't remember his past, and didn't count on the future there was a certain comfort in that thought. If nothing else, he could pretty well count on the circular motion he seemed to move through.Fight- fuck-move on. Fight-fuck-move on. His life was not that complicated, for the past fifteen years there had a certain order to his life.  
  
He didn't have anything else. He never had, he was alone and that was the way he liked it. No strings, strings tied you down. For a man who couldn't remember his past save for night time demons he all too well gleaned the feeling that he was someone who couldn't take being tied down. He didn't know when and he couldn't remember where, but he knew he had been tied down with cuffs and made to lie down with demons.  
  
No, he definitely didn't like being tied down.  
  
Except for the fact that now he was. And for the first time in a long time he didn't know what to do. Despite all appearances, and his versatility, Logan was and had been a creature of habit. Fight-fuck-move on. Fight-fuck-move on. Then there was something different. Something new. There was a pattern to this, but it wasn't a pattern he was familiar with.  
  
The pattern was different. The animal that resided within his psyche knew that much, it too was a creature of habit. It was instinctual for it to look for a pattern, predators always did. Patterns in movement, in cycles, in behavior, in herding, in urges. Patterns carved out niches in life, and that worked for Logan. There was a pattern in the new. It was different, but it was there.  
  
It started with the girl.  
  
It ended with the girl.  
  
That's what the new pattern was, nothing but the girl. She contained the pattern, or, if not the animal reasoned, at the very least she was the reason and the movement behind the pattern.  
  
See the girl. Save the girl. Fight for the girl. Lose the girl. See the girl. Lose the girl. Fight for the girl. Save the girl. Leave the girl. It wasn't a straight repetition, but there was repetitive behavior to be found. Always in the girl.  
  
Logan knew patterns, knew what they represented, understood how they correlated with nature and the very existence of life. Logan knew this, the animal knew this, and that was why this pattern bothered him so. This pattern was bigger than him, bigger than the world he knew, and it varied from basic law, while all at once staying perfectly in sync with it.  
  
It varied from basic law for the man. It was perfectly in sync with the law for the animal. The animal understood all to well what had happened and it rejoiced. The man feared what had happened and so shied away from it.  
  
He had found a mate. It was all the animal needed to know to go to the very ends of the earth to claim and keep her. It was all the man had wanted to hear for a long time, and it was the very reason he couldn't stay. She could not be his, not legally, not morally. The animal didn't understand or care about laws or morals. The man did. As a result they both suffered agony, the animal because the man had more control than he should, and the man because he kept more control than he wanted.  
  
She was pure. He was not. She was young. God knew how old he was. She was untouchable. It made him want her more. He shouldn't have her. She wanted him.  
  
This was why he left, not because he couldn't control himself, but because he knew she didn't want him to. She felt the very things he knew. She didn't have words for them, but what she felt didn't need words.  
  
They belonged. Bound by blood, tied by love, lost and found again, they finally belonged.  
  
And the man in Logan rebelled at that. Ties, and bonds were things of the nightmare time, and he would gladly wear them for her, but he'd be damned before he'd ask her to wear them. The animal knew the secret and whispered it to the man, he growled it to the man, and finally he roared and raged at him.  
  
The animal wanted Marie. The animal would have Marie. And his sweet little Marie would welcome both the animal and him with open arms to make them one and whole again. He wanted that, but he didn't think he should have that, he wasn't worthy in his mind. So he played the legal and moral issues until it became a chant in his head, trying to drown out the roaring of the animal.  
  
He still heard him but he managed to leave her where she would be cared for. Until when he didn't know, she was his and therefore she belonged to him. He hadn't meant for her to know he was coming back to claim her, the animal heard her coming and he didn't have the will power to keep walking. He left her then, through sheer force of will, over riding the animal instinct to pick her up and carry her away. To mark her, make her his. He couldn't do that, not yet, so he marked her the only way he knew how. She would wear his mark until he would come back and mark her permanently, and everyone who saw her would know it. They would not understand it, and she would not try to explain it, but they would see it and respect it.  
  
So he left, the animal roaring at him, and knew he'd be back just as well as she did. She was his, he was hers and she knew it.  
  
He went north, at the most recent spot on the shattered surface that represented what may or may not be a past worth remembering. It wasn't much to go on, but the professor understood Logan's animal well enough to know that the man and it were fighting, and he didn't know, but he suspected it was Marie they were fighting over. Charles Xavier was human for the most part, and sided with the man in Logan, giving him the extra push he needed to leave. The professor understood that he'd be back, and he welcomed it, but he also knew he had to leave, if only to reconcile the battle being waged in his body, whatever that might have been.  
  
Logan left the mansion, left peace, left his dog tags, his mark, left his mate, left his paradise, vowing to reclaim it one day, while the animal swore in the most primal language of existence to fight just as hard till the man gave in to that inevitable day.  
  
Another pattern, the old one, the familiar pattern. Fight-fuck-move on. Fight-fuck-move on. Fight-fuck-move on. Part of him felt he was betraying Marie in this, but if he hadn't he would have given in so he followed it as his body demanded, his mind rebelled, and his animal roared that this was not sufficient, would not be sufficient until it was her. Fight-fuck-move on.  
  
Everything reverted to the same, the hotel rooms, the bars, the fights that were not enough anymore, had never been enough, and the nameless faceless women he fucked that would never again be enough. Fight-fuck-move on.  
  
It was the same, it was different, and it was always gonna be that way. It was then he began his ritual.  
  
He went to the shower first, after tossing his bag on the bed he'd rented for the night. The shower provided temperance to the animal and slowed it down long enough to rest. Cold, gray, night time waters, waters that froze his blood and left him shaking so bad that it was hard to stand, and after a time he didn't he just rocked on his knees as shudders racked his body as his healing mutation slowed to a crawl.  
  
This was a reminder you see. A reminder and a punishment. He didn't deserve her, he would not allow himself to have her until he did.  
  
Tonight was no different.  
  
First the water, straight cold, never any heat, just the bite of freezing water. Let that run, give a minute for the deeper part of the well to reach the frozen pipes, let it freeze, let the water get so cold it would creep into his bones and shatter the metal it found there. Winter water was a sentient creature, it had a life, a mind of it's own, and what it wanted it took, ruthlessly. Water had no conscience, but it did have desire to master, it was patient, but it was a skilled killer and it took whom it wanted.  
  
Logan knew this, the animal knew this. The man had a death wish, the animal refused to allow it, and so each night Logan courted death, taunting the water, daring it. The water would take whom it wanted, and it wanted Logan.  
  
In the shower now, bracing the body against the wall, letting the cold beat mercilessly, tirelessy on his body, while the healing cells in his body slowed to a crawl in the face of those winter waters.  
  
Logan was playing a dangerous game with an opponent who had once swallowed the earth and had enough intelligence to know that it had like the taste and wanted to do it again. The man wanted to lose, the animal wouldn't allow it. They both suffered.  
  
The game was played out while the animal raged.  
  
'MINE. OURS. BELONGS.'  
  
To pure, to young, not worthy or her….  
  
'MINE. OURS. BELONGS. MATES.'  
  
Not good enough for her, to bad, to much, to many demons, not hers…  
  
1.1 'OURS! ALWAYS. NOW. OURS.BELONGS.MATES'  
  
The water was aware of this and when the impertinent man who had dared to invite it to dance hit his knees it struck. It took who it wanted. It wanted this man.  
  
And it would have him.  
  
Logan hit his knees, something was different. He didn't know what this feeling was, but it was dangerous. The piper had come to be paid, and the water was his invitation to death.  
  
1.2 Marie… 


End file.
